


A cold never bothered me anyway

by Ibbyliv



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Combeferre has a cold, Enjolras is worried, Fluff, Gen, I might have made Enjolras a caricature, Look at me trying to write non-shippy stuff, Sickfic, Sorry baby you know I love you, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-22
Updated: 2014-03-22
Packaged: 2018-01-16 15:21:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1352248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ibbyliv/pseuds/Ibbyliv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I never get sick,” says Enjolras, which is a blatant lie.</p><p>“I do,” croons Courfeyrac, “and I could never say no to a few days off class. Or weeks. Ferre, do you think I could convince them I’ve contracted something deadly serious?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“You could kiss me though, if you really love your friend and want to help him, a really, thoroughly wet kiss and give me all of your lovely germs…”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“COURFEYRAC.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	A cold never bothered me anyway

**Author's Note:**

> So yeah. Who's that whiny creature who's stormed the internet with Sick and Miserables Amis this year? Guess one more time? Yep, that's me. But please allow me to confess that there is a perfectly valid excuse behind that. I got sick five times this year and went through all the cliche Les Amis phases (most of them were Enjolras!sick, trying to pretend I could wrestle a hippopotamus and overthrow the state with a fever, but the last time lasted 3 weeks and I sort of ended up like a clingy, exhausted Courfeyrac) so yeah. I'm well and alive right now (thank God) but it's THAT time of the year (the end of the term) which means I've been studying for 9 hours total today and will have no time to write something intelligible in the near future, so I'm just posting this silly piece of fluff I wrote as a prompt fill on Tumblr a couple of weeks ago when I really needed all the sticky sugary comfort. I'm looking at you, friends, for the love of everything that's sacred, stay healthy! (Also brush your teeth after reading this, you must not get cavities. And please excuse me for the absence of Courferre despite the Summary, this is gen bc unfortunately I can't ship the Holy Trinity together, but if you want you can read it as shippy!)

Combeferre is an optimistic man. By saying that Combeferre is an optimistic man, one means that, even though he knows the symptoms of the flu better than his own name, he still hopes that the annoying prickling in his throat won’t develop to that.

Combeferre is maybe way too optimistic sometimes. Because the rest of the time he’s pretty realistic, and that’s probably the tactic he should adopt. Because when Combeferre wakes up the next morning everything’s there. He makes a mental list as his fingers reach out of the warmth of his blanket and to the cold, unwelcome world, to feel the glands on his neck and tries to clear his throat –quite unsuccessfully. Swollen. And burning. A running nose. And a pounding head. He groans pathetically and buries his face in the pillow because he really can’t deal with this right now. His mind goes through all the work he had to finish both for college and for their group, and even though he knew that medical school would mean no breaks, no rest, like _ever,_ he’s sure that working with a riot going on in his head will be a hard task. Hell, he’s been giving this exact advice to all of his friends, now he realizes how difficult it is to follow it when there’s so much to be done.

As difficult as it is to move a single aching bone and get out of bed.

He skips the point of making distressed sounds at the world like Courfeyrac does when he’s sick, or in the pillow, like Enjolras, and just spends a few minutes unsuccessfully trying to breathe while cursing his inability to summon the tissues with his inexistent wand.

Just after he’s decided (for the seventh time) that he must get up because it’s late and he has a neurology class to attend, the door opens and a red tornado with wild blond locks appears on the door with a toothbrush buried somewhere in the bush of his hair, a mug of hot coffee in his hands and a backpack hanging from his shoulder. “Ferre?” the tornado says, looking really busy and impatient. “I’ve got to go but you’re not up? You have a neurology class on nine, don’t you?”

Combeferre opens his mouth to speak but only a croak comes out, so he clears it again. “Thanks Enjolras, I’ll get up in two. You go.”

Enjolras however is not intending to leave just yet. He looks positively concerned as he makes his way into his flatmate’s room and places the mug on the desk, taking a seat on the bed near the bundle of Combeferre. “Are you alright?” he asks carefully, lowering the blankets a bit to reveal a perfectly disheveled Combeferre, hair sticking on his sweaty brow, cheeks flushed and eyes glowing. He brings a hand to his friend’s forehead and flinches at the warmth of his skin. “You’re sick?” he asks disbelievingly, as Combeferre hardly ever gets sick. “What’s wrong?” he immediately looks out of his depth, worried and helpless.

“It’s just a cold,” Combeferre muffles a cough in his elbow. “Don’t worry, I’ll get up in a minute.”

“No way,” Enjolras shakes his head seriously, “you’re not going anywhere. You have to think of your health.”

Combeferre chuckles hoarsely, considering that Enjolras _really_ is not the person to talk of stubbornness and thinking of health. “It’s a really important class though.”

“Yes but you’ll get worse if you go out, and we have the protest on Thursday!”

In all honesty, Combeferre is a much easier patient than most of his friends and he understands that Enjolras’ advice (an echo of his own) is wise, therefore he isn’t going to make a big deal out of this. “Alright, you’re right. Can you please text Joly though and ask him to photocopy my notes?”

“Sure,” Enjolras nods. “Now, what do you need? Soup? Blankets? An ambulance?”

Combeferre chuckles again, causing his throat to burn. “A thermometer would be great, thank you.”

Enjolras stands up and hurries in the bathroom. Combeferre can hear the mess he’s making, one because he’s in a hurry and two because he’s obviously never searched for a thermometer in his life. Thankfully he returns soon enough, bringing a packet of tissues Combeferre is enormously thankful for. “You should go…”

“Not until you take your temperature,” frowns the man, sitting himself on the edge of the bed again.

Combeferre obliges and Enjolras waits until it’s time to read the sign aloud to him, as the sick man is not wearing his glasses. “Is it bad?” he asks quickly in an alarmed voice.

“No Enjolras, it’s not bad,” Combeferre smiles though it’s bad enough to make his whole body ache and his head throb mercilessly.

“I must stay here…”

“No, absolutely not. You have class. Go, I’ll be fine. I’ll rest and make something steamy later, okay?”

“I don’t want you to be alone.”

“I’m going to be fine, Enjolras.”

The blonde looks uncertain, brushing the sweaty hair off Combeferre’s forehead. “Are you sure?”

“Positive. I’ll call you if I need anything.”

“Call me. Or Joly.”

Combeferre shudders and he doesn’t know whether he should blame it on the fever or on Enjolras’ suggestion. “Or Joly,” he agrees.

“I won’t be long, I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Are you sure you’ll be okay?” Enjolras now feels more assured and has already getting up, in running mode again as he grabs his coffee and backpack.

“I’m sure. Thank you.”

He gets up to leave when Combeferre stops him. “Uh, is Courfeyrac here?” Courfeyrac misses most of his early classes sleeping in.

“He spent the night at Jehan’s, sorry,” Enjolras shrugs his shoulders apologetically.

“No it’s okay,” a selfish part of Combeferre had hoped for some company.

“If you don’t need me,” Enjolras turns around, already late.

“Sure, go.”

He nods curtly, rushing to the door. Just before he’s about to storm outside, Combeferre clears his throat and stops him again. “Enjolras?”

“Yes, Combeferre, what do you need?” the young man turns around, flushed and eager to be of help.

“Um,” he stifles his laughter and turns it to a cough. “You’re wearing your slippers.”

Enjolras stands there for a moment, perfectly dressed in his red hoodie and black skinny jeans, before slowly lowering his eyes to the ridiculously fluffy bunny slippers Courfeyrac got him for his birthday. “Oh,” he blushes slowly, “uh, thanks. I’m going to change. Before I go out.”

“Do so,” nods Combeferre, a very unwise choice considering the throbbing of his head. “And wear your coat before you go out.”

When the door slams behind Enjolras, Combeferre heaves a sigh and sinks into his pillow, immediately dozing off.

He’s woken up both by the relieving sensation of a cold hand resting on his forehead and the first he thing he sees is Enjolras’ angelic face of righteous fury. “You’re warmer than before. Why are you warmer than before?”

“It happens,” Combeferre chokes in his cough.

“And you’re coughing. Why are you coughing?”

“I was – coughing before, Enjolras,” the sick man says in an effort to catch his breath.

“I’ll call Joly.”

“No!” Combeferre’s grip is more than powerful on Enjolras’ arm. “You seriously don’t need to…”

“He’s a medical student.”

There’s a short pause. “You realize I’m a medical student too, don’t you?” asks Combeferre, slightly amused.

“Right, of course,” Enjolras flushes quickly. “Just… tell me what you need.”

“Let’s see… some tea and honey would be wonderful, if that’s not a burden,” he replies, mostly to satisfy Enjolras’ need to help because he doubts whether all the tea and honey of the world would now ease the flames in his throat.

“Not a burden at all,” Enjolras smiles, stroking Combeferre’s hair softly. “Just wait a minute, okay?”

Combeferre smiles back and waits a minute. Then another. And another. Feverish as he is, Combeferre can still get that bad feeling that a cup of tea takes much less time to be prepared. And then comes the crash. And more sounds. And Combeferre groans, and gathers all the energy that’s left inside of him to throw himself out of bed and walk to the kitchen.

His tea is perfect and ready and _cold_ by now, on the kitchen table. Apparently Enjolras has managed to make a pot explode and has broken a jar of rice. He looks up at Combeferre, completely furious and Combeferre expects smoke to come out of his ears soon. “I tried to make you soup,” the blonde growls. “Fuck. Fucking _fuck._ ”

Combeferre sighs, unable to hide an affectionate smile. “Hey, it’s okay,” he croaks as softly as one can croak. “No big deal,” he rubs his aching eyes with the bridges of his hands and drags his bare feet to the broom closet. “We’ll just heat up that tea again and clean the floor… maybe do something with the fire too,” he jokes.

“No way,” Enjolras says sharply. “You’re sick, for God’s sake! You’re not going to _clean up_. Bed. Now!”

And Combeferre has to admit that Enjolras can get really, very scary when he decides to, so he slowly retires to his room, praying to the-God-of-philosophers-who-is-different-from-the-God-of-religion that the damage their kitchen will be left with won’t be irreparable.

Just then, he hears the door and soon enough Courfeyrac bursts into the room, with a grumpy Enjolras at his heel. “What do I hear? Is our mighty Guide not behaving? Should I sit on top of him?”

“I thought it was only Enjolras on top of whom we threat to bring Grantaire to sit.”

“He tried to sweep the kitchen floor,” Enjolras throws his arms in the air exasperatedly.

“He tried to set the kitchen on fire,” Combeferre shrugs his shoulders in defense, resulting to a coughing fit.

Courfeyrac raises an eyebrow. “Are you dying?”

“Possibly,” jokes Combeferre and Enjolras hisses threateningly. “No really, I’m positively sure I’ll survive this plague.”

“Though Enjolras really did set the kitchen on flames, didn’t he?” Courfeyrac asks sympathetically.

“Yup.”

“I was trying to make you soup you ungrateful idiot.”

Combeferre tuts quietly, reaching out his hand for Enjolras’ own, rubbing him comfortingly with his thumb while Courfeyrac does his magic and produces two paperbags. “You’re both very lucky to have me, because I’m about to feed you.”

Enjolras seems thankful enough but Combeferre clears his throat. “Thank you Courf, but I can’t really eat right now.”

“Don’t worry, I also brought these happy pills for you to get high and merry on,” his friends winks, handing him a bottle of Tylenol and this is indeed an excellent treat for Combeferre right now. Both his friends settle on his bed and eat. Combeferre cools up a bit after a while, and even offers to proofread Courfeyrac’s article, only for both of them to be glared upon by Enjolras.

“You’ll get sick too,” Combeferre says to his friends after they’ve taken out their books or text endlessly, cuddled up on his sides.

“I never get sick,” says Enjolras, which is a blatant lie.

“I do,” croons Courfeyrac, “and I could never say no to a few days off class. Or weeks. Ferre, do you think I could convince them I’ve contracted something really serious?”

“No.”

“You could kiss me though, if you really love your friend and want to help him, a really, _thoroughly_ wet kiss and give me all of your lovely germs…”

“No.”

“COURFEYRAC.”

“Sorry Enjo, didn’t want to disturb the doves of freedom tweeting in your chaste ears.”

The three of them end up making a puzzle on the bed (unfortunately the only puzzles they hadn’t made yet was some hugeass Austrian castle that Feuilly had brought them but it was 1000 pieces and Combeferre really couldn’t concentrate in such small pieces, so they had to settle for an Anne Geddes 500 piece puzzle with a baby none of them knew personally dressed as a bee and holding his feet in a honey jar that Bahorel bought them for rather questionable reasons), disturbed by the occasional nose blow, cough or sneeze (which apparently is a dad sneeze, and Courfeyrac laughs for approximately thirty two years after the first time, and continues laughing every time after that). Soon enough Combeferre is looking dopey and coughing way too much to be able to concentrate. Enjolras looks concerned. “Are you sure you don’t need Joly?”

Combeferre smiles and nods groggily. “I just need a small nap, okay?”

Enjolras nods solemnly. “Do you want me to sing you to sleep?” asks Courfeyrac cheerfully.

“Spare him Courfeyrac.”

“No, let him sing,” grins Combeferre dizzily, not because he really needs a lullaby but because Courfeyrac is going to be really dramatic for it otherwise and he’s not sure he can handle it right now.

“See Goldilocks? _Some_ people appreciate my talent,” pouts Courfeyrac before clearing his throat and starting to perform a really passionate overly pop-ified version of Let It Go.

Surely it’s not exactly a lullaby, but Enjolras places a soft kiss on his forehead and Courfeyrac snuggles under his arm and rests a hand on his stomach, and soon enough an exhausted Combeferre falls asleep with a peaceful smile on his face.


End file.
